Page 68 of Omega's Faith

Mom pulls me against her side, her lavender scent enveloping me. "I know, sweetheart. I know."

We sit there as the light fades, her knitting needles clicking.

17. Alex

The car pulls up to Diana's townhouse just as the sun starts bleeding orange across the city skyline.

I haven't been here in years. Diana prefers to keep her personal life separate from her side job of managing me. The fact that she's invited me to her home instead of her office means something, though I'm not sure what.

"Mr. Alexander," her housekeeper greets me at the door, taking my coat. "Ms. Norris is on the terrace."

The townhouse is exactly what you'd expect from Diana: tasteful and expensive. No family photos, no personal touches that might reveal something human about her. Just perfectly curated art and designer furniture.

I follow the housekeeper through the living room with its twelve-foot ceilings and out through French doors to the terrace. The view stops me cold. The city spreads out below us, lights just beginning to flicker on like stars coming out. Diana's managed to create an oasis up here—potted trees, soft lighting...

That's when I see him. Jonah sits across from Diana at an elegantly set table, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. He's in back in his handsewn church clothes and his hands are folded in his lap like a schoolboy called to the principal's office.

"What the fuck—"

"Language, Alexander." Diana doesn't even look up from her wine glass. "Sit."

"You ambushed me."

"I arranged a meeting between a married couple who are being ridiculous." She finally meets my eyes, and there's something almost like amusement there. "Now sit down before Henri serves the first course."

Jonah hasn't looked at me yet. He's staring at his water glass. His honey-vanilla scent drifts across the terrace and I want to run over to him and bury my nose in his neck.

I sit because what else am I going to do? Storm out like a teenager? Diana would probably tackle me before I reached the door.

"So," Diana says, settling back in her chair, "you've both had two weeks to sulk. Henri is serving a seven-course meal, and you're going to talk to each other like adults, or I'll lock you both in my wine cellar until you do."

"Diana—" I start.

"I'm seventy-three years old, Alexander. I don't have time for your dramatics anymore." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "I'll be in my study. Henri will serve dinner. You two will talk. If I come back and find either of you gone, there will be consequences."

She walks away, heels clicking against the stone terrace, leaving Jonah and me alone with the skyline.

The silence stretches. Somewhere below us, sirens wail. The city never stops, even for awkward marital disputes.

"You look good," I say and it’s a lie. He looks exhausted, but I’m not going to say that.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, careful. "You too."

I laugh, surprising him, because my little church mouse lied to me. Maybe in a few weeks once I’ve settled into a new routine I’ll look good, but right now I look like an alpha who still misses a drink.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he says, bristling.

“I’m not. I’m laughing at me. I know I look awful. I quit drinking and my body’s still working its way through the process of getting rid of all the toxins,” I say, “but thank you for being polite.”

To my surprise, he laughs. "That's good. I mean, if that's what you want."

"It is." The admission comes easier than expected. "We both know I’m an asshole when I’m drunk. It turns out I can actually think clearly when I'm not pickled."

A man in chef's whites appears—Henri, presumably—carrying two plates. "Oysters Rockefeller," he announces, setting them down with a flourish. "Ms. Norris insists you both eat."

The oysters are amazing, but I barely taste them. I'm too focused on Jonah, the way he carefully navigates the shellfish.

"Never had oysters?" I guess.